


a fever to live with

by lancenoble



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Minor Violence, god powers bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lancenoble/pseuds/lancenoble
Summary: [spoilers up through sih 06 ish]Ephrim holds informal court with a visitor.





	a fever to live with

**Author's Note:**

> ok so the spoilers aren't all that intense for sih but this mentions major spoilers for wih so Watch Out. also said "god powers bullshit" includes like physical control over bodies and pain i dont really know how to tag for so be mindful of that if it bothers you

Ephrim carries a tiny, battered book of fairy tales in his right breast pocket. It’s old, as old as he is, a gift to his mother and then to him before he was taken by the church and taught to read. The priests never taught him to read this book in particular, but he was always a precocious boy. He has it memorized.

He flips through it with one ungloved hand in the morning, after seeing Throndir off hunting and before the garden or the store room or community politics or faith comes calling. He sits on a low wall at the edge of the University that clearly once loomed much higher, but has since crumbled to seat height. The early spring sunlight melts away the late night chill that stings at his hand.

Seeing the childish doodles in the margins of the book brings a wry smile to Ephrim’s face. Some of the drawings are indeed from his childhood, but considering he spent more time studying the scriptures than the icons, it’s hard to tell which. He puzzles over a couple on the cover that are so faded it’s difficult to distinguish flowers and flames from regular old dirt stains and singes.

The little old book naturally opens on a story about a prince and a dragon; it’s a perennial favorite and decorated to match. But Ephrim keeps going, perusing the water-warped yellow pages for a story he hasn’t quite committed to memory. A doodle catches his eye. It’s a man, holding a bow in one hand and what could be a knife or a stick or a bone in the other. He skims the passage above it, a short adage about a fox tricking a hunter. He knows the content, of course, but he can never remember if the moral is knowing the facts, or finishing the job. It’s one of the few stories in the book to have the capacity for interpretation.

Ephrim smirks and pulls a pencil out of his jacket pocket, and scratches in some longer, darker hair on the Hunter. It’s a messy, left-handed affair, but he’s never known Throndir to have any affinity for maintaining a neat look anyway. Satisfied with his work, he closes the book, mindful of the binding, and returns it to his pocket. 

“That story has always been a favorite of mine,” says the man sitting on the wall next to him.

Ephrim jumps, stumbling in his frantic turn down and away from the wall and reaching for his sword. He catches the man’s eyes before he can draw it, and his heart seizes in his chest at the icy violet color of them. But the man is too pale to be the impostor, his hair too long and too gold in the cold spring morning. He hops down from the low wall, his landing much more graceful than Ephrim’s shocked scramble.

Ephrim draws his sword. “Who are you?” But he knows, and the man simply raises an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

Samot grins. “Pleasure to finally meet you too, Ephrim. Lovely place you have. Bit of a fixer upper, I know, though I’m glad to see you and yours are faring… well.”

“What do you want?” Ephrim repeats through gritted teeth. He takes a more appropriate stance, his blade extended between him and Samot, though the god appears to be unarmed. 

“I’ve gotten wind of your exploits, my Lord.” Deadly sarcasm laces the address, and Ephrim takes a step back.

“Then you should know just how dangerous I am,” he says, struggling to even look at the man he’s threatening. Samot laughs, and it does not reach his eyes. He steps closer and brushes the sword away like a question he deigns too pointless to answer.

“You are a fool,” Samot sighs, trailing his hand down the blade. Ephrim is frozen in place, not of his own volition. Samot reaches out his other hand to tilt Ephrim’s chin up, exposing his throat. “That, or an egocentric. I will say,” he murmurs as he slips his fingers around Ephrim’s wrist, sending a lancing pain up his arm and forcing him to gasp and drop his sword. He still cannot move, nor can he see the blade glinting in the grass and dirt at their feet. “It takes some nerve to set up camp in  _ my _ university after killing my son.”

The pain reaches a peak, and Ephrim cries out. He manages to tug himself backwards, but Samot only ever let him go so that he near chokes himself on his own shirt collar.  Ephrim swings his free hand up and strikes Samot in the side, hard. The god growls and his grip loosens, but his control over Ephrim’s movement doesn’t cease. Ephrim freezes, and Samot tightens his grip on his shirt collar, pulling him in close. 

“Just who do you think you are?”

“The leader and protector of this community, serving it where you and yours fail to.” Ephrim hisses. He thrashes against Samot’s grasp. “This place is no longer yours. Let me  _ go _ and  _ leave _ .”

Samot laughs again and his smile is something truly awful, a charming thing broken into the razor edge of a shiv. 

“Do you know what a word eater is?”  Samot bares his teeth in a vicious display, sending more pain up his arm. Ephrim answers his question with silence, haughty as he can make it with Samot’s grip on his collar pulling him up, almost off the ground. Samot’s fierce grin widens into something feral. He pulls his face closer and growls, deep in his chest. “Ask your Ranger, he knows. He knows and will tell you that it means I would just as soon eat your name out of existence as your heart out of your chest for your insolence.”

“Don’t burn your tongue.”

Samot shoves him to the ground at that, and pride flares through Ephrim for a moment. A small victory, making a god lose his temper. Ephrim stares up at Samot, body tense. Fire rages inside him, ready to be used, but he can no longer be sure what is Samothes and what is the Dark Son and if it is truly fire burning away at him at all, or if he’s only ever been a conduit for the Heat. He stays on the ground, not daring to stand lest Samot makes good on his threat, his grimace fading. 

“Your eyes are so cold,” Samot mutters, and Ephrim can’t tell if he’s talking to himself. “Have they always been like that?”

Ephrim risks a shake of his head, but it’s one more thing he can’t be sure of. He hadn’t noticed a change. Samot hums. “That’s what killing does to the soul, I suppose.”

He approaches, and Ephrim shoves himself back and away, coils himself into a crouch. Samot rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to eat your heart.”

“And my name?”

“Stand up.” Samot doesn’t offer him a hand, his patience already wearing thin. “I’m not above hurting a man on the ground, least of all  _ you,  _ but it’s too early in the morning to lose my temper. Again. And besides,” he glances out over the University grounds over the wall, bitterness in the lines around his eyes. “You have people to miss you.”

Ephrim stands. He reaches for his sword, ignoring the pointed look Samot gives him for doing so.

“Not one to follow orders, are you?”

“I don’t serve you gods anymore,” Ephrim says, adjusting his grip on the sword to shake away the residual shocks of pain Samot had given him. “I track the needs of my people.”

“That’s commendable,” Samot admits. “But again, foolish. Powers like yours were meant to be used in the service others.”

“Are you saying my people aren't a good enough for me?” Ephrim’s free hand balls into a fist as he adjusts his stance once more, but he doesn’t raise the blade. “That their needs aren’t as important as your mere wants?” 

“I’m saying, I sense the suffering of your people in that weight upon your shoulders. It’s your own fault the Heat and the Dark is consuming  _ you _ , and I can’t help you with that.”

“Or you won’t,” Ephrim growls. “He put it inside me.”

“Did He?” Samot’s fingers twitch, a mirror image of Ephrim’s as the Heat and the Dark bores away at his flesh. “Or did He simply draw out what already existed?”

Samot casts his critical gaze skyward, examining the starstuff dome. “You have much to be grateful to me for, Lord Ephrim. I can add to that list, if you’ll let me.”

“Why would I want that?” Ephrim says, but at this point in this already too lean year, well. “What would you ask in exchange?”

“You are mine. My son had confidence in your abilities, if not your loyalty. You serve me, I serve your people. Strengthen the barriers, send traders from the City, teach those here to survive.” He shakes his head. “That tall building to the south used to be a library. I don’t require quite the same worship and rote memorization Samothes is so fond of, though prayer is nice.”

“These— my people still believe Samothes is alive, I can’t convert them to an all new god.”

“Or you won’t,” Samot repeats after him, a bitter singsong. “You’re the reason half of them believe in Him in the first place. Why the strength of Him lives on through them. I only really ask this of  _ you _ .”

“Because I’m their leader?”

“Because I’m considering your conversion your penance. It would be so easy to strike you down, and believe me, I would love nothing more.”

“Then why don’t you?” Ephrim says with none of the bite. He chews on the inside of his cheek and surveys Samot, doubt and darkness crawling just beneath his skin.

“Because of  _ that. _ ” Samot catches the thread of discomfort in his core and pulls, and Ephrim takes a step forwards, gasping. “That, my young Lord, is the guilt you feel at what you’ve done. That is useful. That is  _ fuel _ . And what a waste it would be to burn it all up.”

“Firstly,” Ephrim grits out, managing to back away from Samot. “Stop that. I’m not your fucking toy. Secondly, I..." He hesitates, and looks over Samot with an appraising eye. That doubt runs its course through him, as present as his distrust in the gods. But he continues. "We need medicine. Badly. Give us that  first and I’ll consider setting up your shrine.”

“Done.” Samot approaches and ignores the way Ephrim shifts the sword in his grasp. He places a hand on Ephrim’s shoulder, his fingers catching in the fox fur lining his cloak. His voice is lined with concern, and yet Ephrim feels no need to doubt his words. “Penance is such a small price to pay for the health of your city, my Lord. I hope you have the sense to follow through.”

Ephrim closes his eyes and bows his head in a wordless acceptance of his task. When he opens his eyes again, Samot is gone, but the wolf fur covering his shoulders is white.


End file.
